


Cinnamon Gold

by VerdantMoth



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Comfort, Cuddling, Established Relationship, Hot Chocolate, M/M, Nightmares, cinnamon, gold - Freeform, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 06:27:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17996657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: Tony bolts up, empty chest heaving and skin sweaty, unsure of where he is The room is cold, ice cold, and the bed beside him is empty and frigid where it should be full and warm. He can’t breath, can’t even scream.His throat aches like he’s been screaming for days.





	Cinnamon Gold

Tony bolts up, empty chest heaving and skin sweaty, unsure of where he is The room is cold, ice cold, and the bed beside him is empty and frigid where it should be full and warm. He can’t breath, can’t even scream.

His throat aches like he’s been screaming for days. 

It’s so dark.Dark and cold and he can’t remember where he is, where he was. There’s no light. There should be light. Thousands and thousands of stars. He’s in a bed, but he’s alone. He taps his chest, presses his fingers to his throat. There’s a pulse, and his chest is warm, metal. 

He sucks in air, deep breaths that don’t reach his brain, his lungs, and his eyes burn.

“Peter,” he gasp. He can still feel the kid, warm in his arms, warm against his chest. He can feel his breath on his neck, splashed between thighs, pale brown curls beneath his fingers. 

A million images, dust and explosions and stars. So god damned many stars. Fire and lightning and gods and monsters and  _ mortals _ . 

Everyone slipping through his fingers. Alone, he’s alone. He needs to  _ breath _ , he’s supposed to count. There’s something to fix. No one around. 

_ Peter _ . He can’t find Peter. Peter needs to be here, is supposed to be here,  _ Peter _ grounds him, fits him, and he can’t- Tony’s eyes burn and salt carves down his cheeks and  _ hell _ but his chest. Fucking. Aches. 

A noise startles him, something high and familiar. Silver against china, and he can smell something heavenly. 

Peter walks in carrying a tray and Tony stares, confused. His boy is older, leaner. His hair still curls around his ears and his draped in one of Tony’s shirts, but it sits tight across his shoulders now, doesn’t hang past his hips.

Peter grins, and there are fine lines around his eyes and scruff scraped across his jaw. He’s… he’s older, and panic wells in Tony. He claws at his chest, tries to dig in to his lungs and shove the air. He screws his eyes shut and tries to count but everything swirls uselessly in his brain.

Hands, soft despite their callouses, cup his cheek, and there are lips pressed to his temple. Words. He knows these words, what the force and gravitation and speed and velocity relate to. Why mass and pressure go in that order. He listens to Peter mumble math against his hairline, feels the boy’s hands skim down his neck, over his shoulder, tickle past his ribs.

When he leans in to Peter, for comfort more than support, Peter kisses his stubbly cheek and pulls back. “You ok?”  He asks quietly. 

“You weren't’t here. I woke up and,” Tony swallows past the bile, the panic. “You were gone again,” he accuses. 

Peter nods, “I was. But i’m here. I’m always here, Tony. You found me. Remember?” 

“Where were you?” Tony grinds out.

Peter lifts himself off the bed and Tony, he doesn’t quite whine, but it’s a damn close thing. Peter returns and hands him a mug. “You were,” Peter twist his lips the way he does when he’s phrasing something Tony wont want to hear.

“I had a nightmare,” Tony says, small and quiet and ashamed.

“A long one. I knew you would be,” Peter doesn’t finish his thought. He rarely does, but he hands Tony a mug. 

It smells like the packet hot-chocolate Peter is so fond of, and Tony wrinkles his nose and tries to hand it back. 

Peter gives him a blank look. “Christ, Tony. Just try it.” 

Tony exhales heavily and brings the mug to his lips. The chocolate is milky, but thin. He’s surprised though, at the spicy cinnamon on his tongue. “Jesus, kid. How much Fireball did you put in this?” 

“Enough to calm you,” Peter says seriously. “Drink up.” He curls up against Tony, pulls him against his chest. Tony fits perfectly against his thighs, and as Peter digs his fingers into his scalp, nibbles against his ears, he tries to remember what he was even dreaming about. 

“It’s best you don’t, Tony. You’ve enough ghost haunting you. Let it go,” Peter says, tickling at his hips. “Drink up and sleep.” 

“Will you be there when I wake?” Tony asks. There’s apprehension and fear in his voice, and he downs as much of the cocoa as he can to mask the vile shame in his throat. 

Peter isn’t fooled though, when he locks his fingers over Tony’s belly. “Always, Tony. I’ll always be here.” 

Neither of them are fool enough to think he can choose to keep the promise. But they both know how hard he’ll try. 

But there’s the golden glow of the sun rising, the smell of cinnamon and cocoa, and for a moment,  _ a solid, real, warm _ , moment, Tony is safe.


End file.
